


Wake Up

by fo4companionmusings



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Coping, Crying, Funerals, M/M, Vague Timeframe, bad mental health, but you’ll kinda understand why it’s tagged that way, not really graphic depictions of violence, realized feelings, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-19 07:22:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18132692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fo4companionmusings/pseuds/fo4companionmusings
Summary: [Title is a song called Wake Up by Eden! I like the slowed down version a lot and I listened to it while writing this. :’)]Brock deals with losing someone he thought he’d never have to, and the various emotions and revelations that come along with it.





	Wake Up

**Author's Note:**

> REALLY SAD CONTENT BELOW FOLKS. ADDING A TRIGGER WARNING RIGHT HERE AND IN THE TAGS JUST IN CASE.

November 22nd wasn’t an unusual day. It started as it always did. Rusty had been tinkering since the night before, not getting any sleep for a solid 24 hours or more. His glasses barely clung to his face, slowly slipping off with each turn of a screwdriver. He needed new ones. His current ones were on their last legs. 

Finally they slid off and on to the table in front of him. Rusty let out a frustrated sigh and smacked his forehead a bit. A migraine was starting to creep its way around the back of his head and toward his temples. 

Brock came in and urged him to go to bed, telling him exactly how long he’d been awake. Rusty didn’t listen. He’d come back in a while and try to get him to bed again. 

Brock then went to wake the boys. Hank protested being woken up heavily, while Dean simply sat up and started getting ready for the day, making some comment about Hank being a dingus. 

“Busy day today.” Brock told Hank, tossing some clothes at his face.

Hank groaned and went to go get dressed.

Rusty finally decided he needed a break for a few moments after Brock’s warning. He stepped out of the workspace and made his way to the bathroom. He considered a bath, a shower, something.The migraine made itself known again and he used his hands to brace himself on the edge of the sink. It sent pulsewaves of pain throughout his whole head and neck.

His limbs shook, acting like they wanted to give out. He didn’t understand what was happening, but then came to the realization that it had to be the exhaustion. His gaze shifted to the mirror for a very brief second while he braced himself, but he quickly turned away, not wanting to see his own reflection, the pure look of fatigue on his face. 

Finally, he just let them give out and he sat down with his back pressed against the cupboard underneath the sink. He almost smacked his head on the way down, unable to see very well, realizing he’d never picked up his glasses up from off the workshop table. 

He wanted to cry.

His mind wandered to his brother, his dad and how they’d both be more successful than he could ever hope to be. The thing he was currently working on was far from being done and it was even farther from being something JJ would have cobbled together. JJ would be on the cover of some magazine for even the most mundane of inventions, while Rusty could barely pay his bills. He used to live in his dad’s shadow, now he lived in his brother’s. 

Words darted through his mind over and over. 

Failure. Unworthy. Pathetic. 

Failure. 

Failure. 

Failure. 

Rusty’s body shook more even as he sat on the ground and he curled his toes up as an attempt to stabilize himself. He kept shaking while a few tears crept down his cheeks. 

He stood with the help of the sink again, opening the cabinet behind the mirror. His hand shook so hard that some of the contents came tumbling on to the counter and the floor. 

Rusty’s hand made its way to a pill bottle. He didn’t even look at what it was called or what was in it. It was probably expired. It didn’t matter.

He took the whole bottle. 

— 

Brock hadn’t been able to find Rusty for a while, checking the workshop again first, then Rusty’s bedroom, hoping he’d finally given in and gone to bed. He found Rusty’s bathroom door shut and the light on. 

He knocked. “Doc?” No answer.

He tried turning the handle. It was locked. He knocked harder this time. “Doc, are you in there?” 

Without entirely thinking things through, he kicked the door open, practically off its hinges, with one movement. He’d pay for a replacement if anyone bitched about it.

He found Rusty slumped against the side of the tub, arms hanging loosely beside him, head against the wall. Brock’s eyes immediately widened and he rushed down to Rusty’s side. He checked for a pulse. It was faint. 

“Fuck.” He whispered. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

He started performing CPR, stopping for just a brief instant to call the police. They asked what he took. Brock scrambled and found the empty bottle on the counter, telling them the medication he had consumed. The police took some more information via speakerphone as he kept working on keeping Rusty alive and they told him that they were on the way.

Rusty had thrown up at some point during his call with the police. Brock did his best to clear it with a towel and came to the conclusion that Rusty should be able to breathe still. His airway was clear. 

He was panicking now, checking Rusty’s pulse again. It was still there, barely. Brock’s mind wasn’t clear. He couldn’t focus. Rusty’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes flickering for a moment. 

Brock wiped away some drool or puke that had formed at the corner of Rusty’s mouth and kept performing CPR until the police arrived.

The medics took over and all Brock could do was stand and watch. They tried to get him to leave the room, but he wouldn’t. A couple policemen tried to get him to leave, attempting to escort him away, but he socked them both so hard that they fell over on the floor or Rusty’s bedroom. He kept standing in the doorway, watching what was unfolding in front of him. 

They checked his pulse just like Brock had. One of the medics pulled out a defibrillator. They then got Rusty’s shirt off, placed it on his body, and Brock watched as Rusty’s body jolted a little in the response to the electricity sent through him. 

They kept trying, and trying, and trying. 

And then, they didn’t. 

“Call it.” One of them said.

The other paramedic looked at his wrist. “11:43 am.”

The paramedics turned around, shocked to see Brock there. “Sir, sir you have to go.” One of them started to pull out a sheet to use to cover Rusty, but Brock pushed them both aside and sat down in front of Rusty. 

His face was blank. Brock’s stomach clenched, but his face didn’t show any emotion. Every part of him told him that this was his fault. His fault for not paying closer attention, not showing that he cared enough. 

He clenched his fists in response to his stomach. He kept his gaze focused forward and not actually on Rusty. He thought about the boys. He was numb.

—

Brock sat in the front row, Hank on one side, Dean on another. Dean was crying. Pete and Billy made their way in, stepping in front of Rusty’s closed casket. Pete held Billy’s Hand, gripping it so tight that his knuckles were pure white. 

Byron had stepped in front of them, breaking down entirely, sitting on the floor in front of the casket, sobbing. Being more tuned in to the emotions of the room from every single person than anyone else. This only made Dean cry more. Brock rested a hand on Dean’s shoulder for a second before standing and walking over to Orpheus.

“Orpheus, you’re upsetting the kid.” He stated. 

He stifled his sobs, pointing at Brock. “Why didn’t you tell him?”

Brock furrowed his brow. “What?”

“Why didn’t you tell him you were in love with him?” 

Pete and Billy backed up, stepping on to the same pew where the boys were sitting. Pete was consoling Billy, trying to calm him down, getting him not to cry. 

Brock stood there with the same puzzled expression on his face. 

“Mr. Samson, Brock. Why didn’t you tell him how you felt?” He asked again, standing from off the floor, tears still covering his cheeks. 

Brock stood locked in place for a few moments, before exiting the funeral home in a borderline run. He ducked in to an alley and allowed his hands to shake. They’d been pestering him the whole day. They shook so violently he had to grip a dumpster. 

Tears ran down his face. 

They clouded his vision so much that he could barely see. 

Byron was right.

Why didn’t he?


End file.
